"My dear old Dick,--Had yours and its thunderclap. Gave me a bad
headache. Hang it all! if it's true, what a predicament for a fellow
to find out that he's somebody else--`Not myself at all,' as the song
says! But you have possession, Dick; and, speaking as a lawyer, I
should say, let them prove it on the other side. Don't you go running
about and telling people you've no right to the property; for, after
all, it may only be an hallucination of that old woman's brain. What
a dreadful creature! Why, if she isn't your mother--and really, I
think she can't be--I should feel disposed to prosecute her; and I
should like to hold the brief. Don't be in too great a hurry to give
up, but, on the contrary, hold on tight; for that's a fine estate, and
very jolly, so long as you could keep off the locusts. On looking
back, though, there are a good many strange things crop up--the
wonderful display of interest in dear Master Dick, and all the rest of
it. Looks bad--very bad--and like the truth Dick. But, as I said
before, legally you've got possession, and if I can help you to keep
it--no, hang it, Dick! if the place isn't yours, old boy, give it up.
There, you see how suitable I am for a barrister. I could never fight
a bad cause. But, as I said before, give it up, every inch of it. I
wouldn't have my old man Dick with the faintest suspicion of a dirty
trick in his nature. Cheer up, old fellow, there's another side to
everything. That Sybaritish life was spoiling you. Why, my dear boy,
you've no idea how jolly it is to be poor. Hang the wealth! a fico
for it! Come up and stay with me in chambers, while we talk the
matter over, and conspire as to whether we shall set the Thames on
fire at high or low water, above bridge or below. Meanwhile, we'll
banquet, my boy, feast on chops--hot chops--and drink cold beady beer
out of pewters. Ah, you pampered old Roman Emperor, living on your
tin, what do you know of real life? Setting aside metaphysics, Dick,
old boy, come up to me, and lay your stricken head upon this manly
bosom; thrust your fist into this little purse, and go shares as long
as there is anything belonging to, yours truly,
"Frank Pratt.
"P.S.--I should have liked to see Tolcarne again. Pleasant, dreamy
time that. Of course you will see no more of the little girls?"
"Poor old Frank," said Richard, refolding the letter. "I believe he
cared for little Fin."
There was no time for dreaming, with the bustle of Paddington Station to
encounter; and making his way into the hotel, he passed a restless,
dreamless night.
Volume 3, Chapter III.